Born: January 7, 1858, Detroit, Michigan.
Died: January 8, 1945.
Buried: Princeton Cemetery, Princeton, New Jersey.
Henry was the son of Mahlon S. Frost and Frances Harriet Foster, and husband of Abigail Ellinwood (married 1883).
He was the first North American Home Director of the China Inland Mission, and first president of the Interdenominational Foreign Missions Association.
My beloved is mine, and I am his.
I am the bride; and the Bridegroom
Is my own, my well-beloved One;
I slept; but He found me, and kissed me,
I awoke, like a flower in the sun;
Since then I have loved my Belovèd;
He loved me before—for He chose;
And though like the black tents of Kedar,
He called me His lily, His rose.
But, alas! I lost my Belovèd;
He went where I did not dare go;
Yet I stood afar off, and I watched Him,
I saw His side rent and blood flow;
Then I came, and I took Him and laid Him
In a tomb, which I closed with a stone,
And oh, the long anguish and weeping,
As I stood there without, left alone!
At morn, while the sun was yet rising,
Early, the first day of the week,
I came to the tomb bearing spices,
As sweet as the flower of His cheek;
And lo! the stone was rolled backward;
I hastened, I looked—He was gone!
Within, where He lay, was an angel,
In garments as bright as the dawn.
I scarce can recall all that happened,
I scarcely knew all in my pain;
But this I remember—I saw Him,
I saw my Belovèd again.
I clung to His feet and I worshipped,
H spake as in days that were past,
And oh, how my heart burned within me!
I thought I possessed Him at last!
I thought I had found Him for ever,
To keep Him, to Hold Him, my own;
Ah me! while sweetly communing,
He blessed me, and left me alone;
Uprising, still blessing, yet rising,
E’er higher and higher He went;
My soul longed to follow—I could not;
Like a bird in a cage, I was pent!
So now, I wait here in the darkness,
While He dwells above in the light;
And yet, though not seeing, I love Him,
And I seek to serve Him aright;
For I live in the hope of His coming
And to have His smile in that day;
Oh, I’ll gladly meet Him and greet Him
And be with my loved One for aye!
I am the bride; and the Bridegroom,
Is my own, all tender and true;
He knows what it is to stand waiting,
At night, with his locks wet with dew;
He will keep His tryst with me, some day,
He will call me, and make me His own;
O hasten, Belovèd, my Bridegroom,
And take Thy lone bride to Thy home.
Henry Weston Frost, 1887
Published in Pilgrim Songs, 1908
If you know Frost’s place of death, would you ?